


human after all

by duets



Category: Attack The Block
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duets/pseuds/duets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hoping is just as insane as trusting, but moses hasn't slept in days. watch him not give a fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	human after all

They put what was left of Biggz inside a plastic container, pack him up like he's a piece of meat leftover from Christmas. After they're done, the rubber gloves are left to rot on the ground, the small drops of blood staining them _fucking nothing_ if compared to the rest.

Moses stops staring.

 

+

 

They hop the rest of them inside a rusty white van, the smell of chlorine reminding Moses he's supposed to be spilling his guts out right now.

"You reckon they'll be distributing candy after the trip's over, bruv?" Pest asks, the bumps on the road making their shoulders clash every other curve.

After a particular hard slam, Moses moves closer and puts his arm around Pest's waist, tries to keep them both steady because this shit is just too fucking annoying.

"Oi! Can we get some music back here, mate?"

That's Pest again, shouting at the tiny window that keeps them from the driver, his good hand brought over his mouth for effect. Pest, who probably survives off of having no sodding survival instincts at all.

"Expecting the prisoners to fucking entertain themselves." He turns to Moses, his voice loud enough to be heard outside the van. "This ain't no fucking Matrix, trust."

There is no warning gunshot, nothing but silence from the cabin, but Moses thumbs at the gash on Pest's leg anyway, tells him in not so many words to shut the fuck up if he likes his bruises all in one place.

He doesn't, of course. Keeps spitting his inane babble at Moses nonstop until he has to actually take a break just to breathe.

Moses closes his eyes, then tightens his grip on Pest hard enough to hurt, his hand moving until he can feel the curve of Pest's ribs against his fingers. He keeps listening, doesn't know how not to anymore.

For now, the nausea is gone.

 

+

 

It takes them three corrections of his name to give up on him, at least for the time being. They are likely going to send him home, an example of the heights government generosity can reach at times of crisis. No, there are no words of his uncle yet, but Moses should bloody well thank them for even bothering, should keep his little psycho tale to himself until they decide to contact him again.

"We trust you'll be reasonable enough, Marcus," is what the suit with the thick glasses tells him that day.

Moses doesn't even bother correcting him, just lets out a "Yeah," and waits for him to leave.

They take their sweet time trying to "fill him up on the basics", spend ages rearranging the locks, "just in case". Like he has the energy to try to break them.

When he's alone, Moses sighs and bends over to lean his head against the cold wall of the cell. He's on the way to allowing himself to feel a bit of relief, when he hears the guards talk about who's going up next for interrogation.

 

+

 

He doesn't trust Pest enough to believe he'll keep his mouth shut, doesn't think there's anyone dumb enough for that, not really.

Instead, Moses hopes that when the time comes for him to let his mouth run off, Pest will know the right shit to say.

(Hoping is just as insane as trusting, but Moses hasn't slept in days. Watch him not give a fuck.)

 

+

 

The suits make him stay to watch Pest's testimony out of some sort of fucking sadistic corporational pleasure or something. Like this whole thing is an episode of He-Man and Moses gotta learn a lesson at the end.

He saw Dennis's father when they brought him home. He doesn't think he'll be learning anything at this point.

 

+

 

Their stories match like no fucking thing, every exclamation mark out of Pest's lips clicking with the ones Moses doesn't know how to use. There are no missing links, nothing to question there. And that's how Moses knows they're fucked.

 

+

 

He leaves with a pack of gauze and a few fags nicked out of the gate guard. Three blocks in, and Moses spots the bloke following his steps. He lights one off, the smoke making his lungs burn, turning into dry cough. He must be losing his touch.

 

+

 

Pest arrives a week later, the lack of bruises on his face making Moses' stomach drop. They didn't beat him up, even went so far as to fucking giving him painkillers for the leg, three every four hours. It's cruelty in a way only suits know how, fucked-up and precise like a stab to the throat could never be.

There are cuts all over Moses' face that, despite everyone's efforts, still refuse to heal, that just stay there all pink and disgusting, a fucking monument to how much screwed things can get. The bandages serve of nothing, end up inside an ancient pizza tray, home for whatever thing the cheap mayo decided to morf into this time.

The smokes get him through the night without a fuss, all the possible nightmares blown into ash. Judging from the recent absence of his stalker, the suits are getting him back in a few days, a week if he's lucky. They still won't have heard about Fred, will probably be fed up with waiting for Moses to change his story, to give them the truth they want. Next time there won't be no "we trust".

What scares Moses the most is that he doesn't know what to do with Pest's silence.

 

+

 

Moses spends four days watching for the hint of a scar every time Pest drops by, waiting for Pest's hand to shake every time they share one. It never does, though, not even when Pest is so high he can't even tell which end of the joint goes where.

It's supposed to be comfortable, not talking about anything, the weed smoothing over the sharp parts, leaving only a dull pain in the wake. They never go past "pass it over", though, and thinking about that makes the smoke go in the wrong way somehow, makes Moses feel like he's much more than just choking.

The noise snaps Pest out of his daze, makes him turn to help Moses almost unconsciously, his eyes really there for the first time in what feels like fucking forever, his fingers burning holes in the nape of Moses' neck.

"Fucking breathe, you arse," Pest says, his voice half-annoyed and half-panicked, and that only makes it worse, is so fucking familiar that it scares Moses out of his fit.

He knows he's staring, knows he should probably just roll them another one and never mention it again, but then Pest reaches out, the tips of his fingers brushing the scar across Moses' nose. "Shit," he whispers, his skin shivering cold when Moses takes his wrist.

"Jesus, fam," he says and it comes out small and awed, like it's the first time he's seen Moses in years. "That's some serious Teenage Werewolf shite you're trying to pull off there."

Moses lets go of his wrist after that, takes both of Pest's hands in his. Pest is still freezing, and his eyebrows are furrowed when he snaps, "I ain't no fucking five-year-old girl."

Moses steadies his grip, refuses to let go even when Pest's whining gets louder. They have no fucking time. He can not let go for a little longer.


End file.
